


Eloquence

by Acai



Series: Wayfaring [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Anxiety Dogs, But Puck helps him through it, Childhood, Childhood Memories, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Jack has a lot to work through, M/M, Read the first part first, Service Dogs, only one doggo this time, this is the second prequel to the series, this time it's jack's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 07:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13336692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acai/pseuds/Acai
Summary: Jack was eleven and the world was a scary place to be. // Jack from ages five to twenty seven





	Eloquence

**Author's Note:**

> you asked for more, and you received. i'll be turning this into a series--probably a long one--so subscribe to the series link if you'd like to be updated to the additional pieces :) also, you can follow my tumblr tag #Wayfaring-with-Puck (linked below) for updates, headcanons, and questions about the works! 
> 
> Read the first part, Verbatim, before reading this one!!!!!!!!

 

 

>       [Please skim this post before reading this work; it's an explanation of what kind of service dog Jack has, and how exactly she helps him](http://aobajosighs.tumblr.com/post/169559533907/extra-information-for-the-jack-puck-check)
> 
> [ To hear about updates, headcanons, and <1000 word short writings for this AU, follow my #Wayfaring With Puck tag ](http://aobajosighs.tumblr.com/tagged/wayfaring-with-puck)

 

 

* * *

 

The ice rink had been a special treat when Jack had been really little. His papa’s work began at nine and he worked late, and his maman’s work started a little afterwards at ten. Jack wasn’t allowed to hang around while his papa practiced, so if he wanted to skate then he had to wake his papa up at five in the morning and plead with him to go skating. That promised him a solid three hours of skating while his papa blinked blearily at him from the sidelines.

He’d been good from the start. By the time that he was five years old he could skate laps with ease, and skate laps he did. When he slipped and tumbled down, his papa would straighten up and watch him just long enough to make sure that his son was okay, and then he’d go back to his sleepy gazing.

His papa helped, teaching him to always fall backwards (so that he didn’t get hurt on his skates, which were sharp) and how to bend his knees to go faster.

Sometimes—on a _really lucky day—_ one of Papa’s teammates would show up for early morning practice. The nicer ones would grin at him, sometimes patting his head or complimenting his skating, and Jack would feel his stomach swell up with Happy, like he was going to burst from it. The blander teammates would look annoyed at him, but would offer up a short ‘good morning,’ to him.

When his papa wasn’t too sleepy, he’d skate with Jack, and those were the best times. Because Papa—Papa was the best hockey player in the world. Everybody knew it. Why else would they ask Jack, “are you going to grow up to be like your papa?” And why else would Jack always promise them that he’d be _even better_ than his papa?

Hockey, to a five-year-old, wasn’t much work. It wasn’t even much work when he was six, or seven, or eight.

Hockey got hard when you were nine and competitive, though. Not because the game was hard—the game was never hard, not for Jack—but because nine was _mature,_ and that meant understanding more things. One of the things that Jack grew to understand when he was Nine Whole Years Old was that sometimes having the best papa in the world was a little bit hard, because Jack couldn’t do _half_ the stuff that his papa could do.

How was he supposed to be the very best if he couldn’t do what his papa could?

* * *

Jack was ten when his maman insisted that he play lacrosse.

“He needs _land legs,_ Bob,” she’d insisted, and had dragged both of her (very reluctant) boys off to kids’ lacrosse practice each Saturday.

Papa had taken more joy in having his wife attend both of her boy’s hockey matches each Tuesday and Thursday after that.

Lacrosse had been okay. It wasn’t _hockey,_ and he’d never need it, but it was good enough fun, and he liked being able to run around. His maman had liked that he was ‘getting fresh air,’ too, so he didn’t really much of a say in the matter.

The practices were fun.

The games were not.

Hockey— _hockey_ Jack was good at. He didn’t have to worry there, because he had his papa to teach him everything that he’d ever need to know. But nobody was there to make him perfect at lacrosse, and Jack wasn’t perfect at lacrosse at all. His maman wanted him to win—she’d been making sure he’d been practicing, and she’d been talking him up to his aunt, and now Jack _had_ to win, or else his maman would be sad.

Jack supposed that was the first time that he felt it, the Clenching, Gutting, Stabbing, Bad Feeling that crawled up and up and up into his throat and squeezed his stomach too tight.

“It’s too tight,” he’d complained to his maman, little hands gripping at his jersey.

“Ah, we’ll get you a bigger size soon, okay, Jack?”

And Jack hadn’t know how that’d help, but if his maman said that a bigger shirt would help this feeling, then he guessed that she must be right.

* * *

Jack didn’t win the game; Jack didn’t even play the game.

The second his maman had smiled at him and told him that she’d be waiting in the stands, he’d _bawled._ He’d felt bad, and scared, and tense, and the thought of his maman walking away had been the breaking point. She’d paused, wide-eyed and confused, before gathering him up and sitting down on the ground.

“I—don’t—want—t—to—p— _play,”_ Jack had sobbed, fists gripping his maman’s tee, and it had felt _Bad._ He’d felt shaky, and he’d felt like his stomach was wrapped around itself, and he’d felt scared without having anything to be scared of.

Maman had whispered to the coach eventually, and Jack had gone home without playing. He’d cried all the way to the car, sobs wrenching out of him the second his maman tried to put him down to buckle him in.

So she’d sat with him, leaning against the side of the car while he cried against her stomach. She’d run her fingers through his hair until he’d calmed down, and he’d sniffled against her chest until he calmed down enough for her to buckle him in and drive home.

He must have fallen asleep in the car, because he didn’t remember getting home after that.

* * *

The _Bad_ feeling never stopped. Not for long, anyway. It would go away sometimes, and then it’d come back with its snapping jaws and pinching teeth, wrapping up his stomach and tangling his insides until he cried for hours.

Maman always looked shocked when it happened, like each time was supposed to be the last. Papa had begun to just look resigned each time, not to Jack, but to the concept that this was a _thing_ now.

Jack was eleven and the world was a scary place to be.

The line was crossed when Jack couldn’t even say hello anymore without breaking down. Even when he’d go skating with Papa and they’d see one of the cool hockey players, one who’d compliment Jack’s ice skates and call him a _cool little dude,_ Jack would be in tears before he could figure out why he was crying.

His papa would just gather him up and bring him home, and Jack would sleep on the drive every single time, because the _Bad_ feeling was exhausting. There was a heavy feeling that came with it, and sometimes it felt good to cry. It felt good to relieve himself of all the pressure that was building up inside of him all the time. Whenever Jack felt  _Bad,_ his stomach twisted up and the  _Bad_ feeling crawled up his spine and feel grows, and Jack would heave sobs until he felt like he was going to be sick. 

He always felt scared, terrified of something, and his parents always asked him what was wrong. They always asked him how they could help, they always asked him what was making him cry. But Jack never knew; if he did, he probably wouldn't have had the words to say it. 

* * *

Jack talked to therapists.

Jack talked to psychiatrists.

Jack talked to children’s specialists.

Jack talked to behavioral specialists.

They all used big words that Jack didn’t understand, but words that made his parents frown, and Jack _hated_ that he was making them upset.

They would tell him that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't control it, that it was just something that he was born with. It was beginning to seem to Jack that everything that he was born with was too heavy to handle; the blood of a hockey progeny and the mind of somebody who was scared of something that they weren't even aware of. 

* * *

The world was tiring.

Jack got better at managing himself as he got older, but he never quite mastered not feeling so tired all the time.

He was thirteen, and his schedule consisted of waking up, going to school, and going to bed in a listlessly repeating cycle. His maman watched him, and she always looked tired, too.

 _I’m sorry,_ Jack always wanted to say, but he didn’t, because the exhaustion made words heavy, and Jack didn’t have the energy to say anything at all most of the time.

Halfway through his thirteenth year, Jack found himself unable to keep up his constant sleep cycle.

In the dark, he found himself sitting up in bed and staring off at his walls. Jack liked hockey. Sometimes it was tiring, but he liked it. He wanted to play hockey forever—he knew that for a fact.

But…he wasn’t going to be the _best._ Jack still couldn’t do half the things his papa could, and he was tired, and _the best_ seemed too hard. Just thinking about trying to be as good as his papa made him sag with exhaustion, and Jack felt guilt creeping up his stomach at that.

He felt guilty, because he would be letting the whole world down if he couldn’t do it. And he felt exhausted, because he didn’t have the energy to be the best. But most of all, Jack felt scared, because _the best_ was too hard, and he _knew_ he wouldn’t ever be able to do it.

Jack shook and cried until he fell asleep.

* * *

Fourteen was a good year.

Fourteen was getting better, and fourteen was making Maman proud, and fourteen was getting better at hockey, and fourteen was watching Papa pump his fist into the air from the sidelines when he got a goal, and fourteen was sleeping well.

Fourteen was getting called a _wunderkind_ and praised left and right.

Fourteen was knowing he’d make it to the NHL just like his papa.

* * *

Fifteen was shaking so hard that he choked on his own sobs. Fifteen was punching walls until his fists oozed blood. Fifteen was feeling so _scared_ that he could only curl up on the floor and yell into pillows while the saltwater dripping down his face made his skin red and blotchy.

Fifteen was being called _wunderkind_ a little less, and fifteen was fighting for the NHL someday with all the intensity that the anger seeping out of his body could muster—and that was a lot of intensity.

* * *

Sixteen is the end of _wunderkind,_ as well as the end of a lot of things. He’s not a little kid anymore. He can’t go crawling to Maman’s lap every time his chest tightens for the _Bad_ feeling, and the _Bad_ feeling has a name now.

The anxiety crawls up and up and up his spine and into his throat, twists his stomach and makes him shaky, but he can’t run to anybody anymore.

He drags himself to Kent, sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly pitiful. It helps, a little, but he always leaves the exchanges feeling guilty and worse than he did when he started.

Jack is sixteen when he agrees to try alcohol, even though it’s going to mess with his medicine, and he’s sixteen when he comes home six hours late and drunk. Jack is sixteen when the ‘trying’ becomes a habit, and he’s sixteen when he messes with his medication so much that he throws it off. And then, of course, he has to take _more and more and more_ because it’s not working, and drunk rationality is never as good as it could be.

The medication worked, though.

And Jack…Jack was winning. He was impressing his papa and his maman, and he was winning every game that life could throw at him. Nobody doubted for a second that he was going to the NHL, and nobody doubted he was going to be just as great as his papa.

But Jack still screamed into pillows and slammed his fists into walls at night when the grappling, aching, terrifying anxiety wrung him out—because when he was _overwhelmed and scared and upset_ he got _angry, angry, angry_.

It seemed like Jack was the only one with any doubt these days.

Sixteen drags on for two long years.

* * *

He’s eighteen when he starts hating the tired feeling dragging him down. He’s eighteen when he starts thinking _I can’t fucking do this_ at every minor inconvenience. And he can’t.

He really, really can’t. It’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying. It’s exhausting. He’s tired, he’s aching, he’s afraid, and he can’t do it.

Jack is eighteen and his maman is getting on his case about drinking so much, and his papa is mad because Jack is going to _ruin his image_ and Jack is mad because he’s a _fucking loser_ nowadays who can’t pull himself together enough to even reply to his parents when they get mad. Because he doesn’t have the energy. And he doesn’t have the words

Jack is eighteen, and it should be freeing. He’s a legal adult—there’s a world of possibilities!

But instead, he’s just trapped. Trapped in this _head_ and trapped in this _disorder_ and trapped in his dad’s footsteps and trapped in his constant, constant failure.

And he really can’t do it.

It’s the little things that tip the scale.

It’s losing a weekend game that tips Jack’s scale.

He can’t be his dad. He can’t be a _wunderkind._ He can’t stop being irrational.

 _Take as needed,_ his medication commands. So Jack takes them as needed, and they don’t work, and he takes more as needed, and more and more and more and more—

It _says_ not to take more than four in twenty-four hours, but they’re _needed._

Jack Zimmerman is eighteen years old, crying on his bathroom floor and digging his fingers into his skull and kicking his feet out in frustration and banging his head back against the plaster and his chest feels _tight and afraid and Bad._

And Maman is crying.

* * *

He’s not allowed to keep going.

He’s tipped his own scale too far and reached the last stop, and this is it, and he really couldn’t do it.

There’s a piece of Jack that wants to curl back up. He wants to wake his papa up at five am and go skating, and he wants the guts to say hi back to the **_big, cool_ ** hockey players who like his ice skates. He wants to skate lap after lap and tell strangers that he’s gonna be _just like Papa!_

But instead, Jack is at rehab and Jack is coaching a peewee team and Jack is trying to work through what tabloids are enjoying calling ‘daddy issues’.

Jack Zimmerman is eighteen, and the NHL doesn’t want him, and he’s nothing like his papa.

* * *

Twenty-one is meeting Shitty Knight in a college dorm hall that smells like burned ravioli and asking _okay, but what’s your actual name_ at least twelve times before giving up and accepting that a man named _Shitty_ is befriending him.

Twenty-one is realizing that Shitty Knight grows on people like a leech, and that Jack has become pretty fond of his new friend.

Twenty-one is crying on the floor of his dorm, shaking and kicking and moaning until the door cracks open and Shitty slips in tentatively.

Shitty isn’t his maman, but he does a pretty damn good job of helping out when it comes to anxiety attacks.

* * *

Maman had loved her experiences at Samwell. But she just ‘hadn’t thought it was the right place for Jack right now,’ which roughly translated into ‘I don’t think you have enough control of yourself right now to go to a place like Samwell,’ which had made Jack want to go even more in some kind of desperate tizzy to prove himself.

After all, his parents had both loved Samwell. And Samwell had gotten Bad Bob into the NHL, right? His parents were just concerned because Samwell wasn’t rehab, and Jack couldn’t really blame them.

But Samwell?

Samwell was better than rehab. It did more for Jack, at least. Samwell was support, and it was tentative recovery, and it was feeling guilty for his freakouts, but not _as_ guilty or lonely or terrified.

Samwell was a break from the outside world, and Jack was scared to leave it someday.   

 

Samwell, to Jack, was a break from most of the rest of the world. Starting Samwell hadn’t been as easy.

He’d lingered in the locker room until everybody else disappeared, and didn’t tend to join in many conversations, and he knew what everybody else on the team was thinking about him. They knew who his dad was, so they knew who he was, so they knew why he was twenty one and only just starting college, and they knew more about him than he’d ever told any of them. And that, to Jack, was more than just a little bit daunting. They knew everything about his life even though he’d never even had a real conversation with most of them.

What was really daunting, though, was the fact that he was pretty much screwed if they were jerks. His therapist always talked about how _important_ it was to have a safe space, a place where he could go and recover and not have to worry about what anybody would think if he had a breakdown.

Jack knew that she was emphasizing a point to help him, that she was making sure he knew it was important to have supportive friends, but it wasn’t helping his anxiety one bit. Now there was a pressure to make Samwell just the right place, because if he didn’t then his maman and his papa and his therapist, too, now, would be disappointed in him.

But Samwell went above and beyond, and Jack wasn’t even halfway through his first day (which he’d spent, admittedly, cowering in one corner of the ice because _holy shit what if he sucked now and let everybody down_ , because this worry had turned into a crippling fear and now he couldn’t even _move_ or he might let everyone down) when Johnson clapped his back firmly and grinned at him when Jack turned around.

“You good?”

Jack nodded once, and he knew it was too jolted to be anything close to natural.

“Cool,” Johnson moved along easily. “We’re doing half-and-half, and I’m claiming you for my team. Cool?”

“Uh,” said Jack. “Cool.”

 

The first practice went smoothly after that, and Jack could feel his shoulders relaxing the longer that he played. The ice wasn’t the rest of the world--Jack was good on the ice.

* * *

Every time that Jack thought he was getting better he’d have a setback.

Every time that he felt proud of himself, every time that he told his maman he was getting better, he’d end up hyperventilating on the floor somewhere.  

Like now, for instance, while his fingers tore through his hair and he curled up against the benches in the locker room.

At some point the door opens and somebody walks in, but Jack doesn’t notice enough to care through his hazy stupor of _you’re bad, you’re bad, you’re bad, you’re bad, you’re bad._

And then there’s a pressure, a good pressure, pushing against his back and his stomach. Jack wheezed, and Shitty started talking.

He talked about how he was walking to class this morning and _almost_ touched a goose, and he talked about the class that he had later that day, and he talked about how his parents wanted him to study law, and how he kind of wanted to study law, too.

Eventually Jack’s wheezing stopped and the world evened out, and his hands loosened their grip on his hair, and he uncurled. It occurred to him that the pressure was Shitty wrapped around him while he gabbered on about his daily life, and he means to say _thank you for helping me_.

Instead he says, “sorry.”

Shitty shrugged. “No big,” he promised. “Anything to help a dude out. You good now?”

“Uh...yeah, probably. Usually...it takes a lot longer to...chill out.”

“Huh. Are you usually alone?” Jack shrugged, and Shitty took it as a _yes._ “Most people do better with support.”

Jack meant to say _are you my support?_ Or maybe _will you help me next time, too?_

Instead his mouth decided on, “oh. Okay.”

* * *

It went unsaid, but Shitty was Jack’s self-declared support system. When Jack freaked out, Shitty was there to pull him somewhere quieter and gab on while Jack wheezed. He was there to gently tug Jack’s hands from his hair before he tugged it out, and he was there to ease away the pressure in his stomach with pressure on his back and stomach instead.

Undeniably, it took almost thirty minutes less to calm down when Shitty was there.

Words were still _hard,_ and Jack couldn’t figure them out most of the time, but if he could then he’d probably tell Shitty how important he was to him, or he’d tell him how glad he was that he was there to help out.

He tried his best to show him that without saying anything.

* * *

Sometimes the pressure becomes _too much, too much, too much,_ and even though Jack doesn’t panic, he does snap.

When he snaps at Bittle, before they’ve ever really even had a genuine conversation, the guilt eats him for a week.

* * *

He kisses Bittle, and he frets about it later, but they text and it’s _good_ and it’s _okay_ because Bittle likes him back and that...that sounds better to Jack nowadays than the NHL itself.

* * *

Bitty is a lot of good things, and Jack doesn’t think he can imagine ever living without him now that he’s got him.

Bitty makes Jack feel secure, because between his boyfriend and his best friend, Jack is pretty much covered from all angles at this point.

He’s not _improving,_ but it’s much less harrowing to deal with his head when there’s people there to help him out.

* * *

Shitty texts him a link a little while after Jack moves away from Samwell. Neither of them mentioned it, but they both know that Jack’s going to have a hard time on his own without anyone there to help.

Bitty is there when he can be, and Jack is glad for that, but he’s got college and Samwell that eats up at his time.

The idea is...not realistic. Jack can’t bring a dog with him wherever he goes--and how is a dog supposed to help, anyway?

 

Shitty is insistent about the idea, though. Jack knows that his best friend worries more than he needs to, sometimes, but the idea has evolved from _friendly worry_ to _intense worry_ in no time at all.

“Did you even read the links I sent you?”

“I can’t get a dog, Shits. This place doesn’t allow pets.”

“If you’d read the links that I’d sent you then you’d know that your apartment doesn’t have to allow pets. They--,”

“I barely remember important things right now, how am I going to remember to take care of a dog?”

“As if you’d _forget,_ ” Shitty rolls his eyes overdramatically. “Dude, the dog can help you remember things like meds. Again, it was--,”

“In the links, yeah, yeah. Bitty doesn’t like dogs, you know that.”

He’s stumped Shitty on that one, because silence follows him for the next few minutes until Shitty moves on to a new subject.

* * *

Shitty talks to Bittle, and Bittle talks to Jack, and Jack maybe-- _just maybe--_ starts to genuinely consider the option.

He talks to his therapist, who agrees with Shitty, and she begins the route of gathering all the necessary paperwork and recommendations.

They learn that, even after they’ve been accepted for a service dog, there’s still twelve months left to wait until they’ll really start to integrate it into Jack’s life. He’s relieved, because even though the dog is supposed to help, he’s a little stressed out about it all right now.

He’s stressed especially about how much Bitty dislikes dogs, but he tries to put it out of his mind while they drive an hour and a half to go and match with a puppy.

Jack forgets to be worried while he’s got arms full of wriggling German Shepherd puppy. He holds the dog like a baby, cradling her while she licks his fingertips. The puppy moves onto his nose, and the woman working with them giggles.

The matching process begins simple, and Jack--after not much thought at all--knows that there’s no name for the puppy except for Puck.

* * *

After eleven months, Jack starts the process of integrating Puck into the rush of everything. For three weeks Jack works with the trainers and learns, and for three weeks Puck learns alongside him.

* * *

It’s daunting at first.

They start really small.

He walks around the city with Bitty, and Puck pads alongside him the whole time. She’s a big dog, so with Bitty on one side and Puck on the other, Jack doesn’t have to get too close to a stranger at any point. They don’t go inside anywhere the first time, but it’s comforting to be more used to the feel of walking with Puck at his side when the day draws to an end.

They inch their way up. Restaurants, movie theaters, practice, work, and the Haus until Puck’s going everywhere that Jack goes.

She’s not a focus of his, but there’s always comfort in knowing that she’s there. He’s still startled by the notion that his brain could randomly decide to throw him into an anxiety attack right in the middle of a sidewalk, but it’s less jolting now that he can counteract that fear knowing that if he _were_ to flip out right now, it’d be easier than it would have been before.

Puck doesn't function like a deterrent to his anxiety--Jack certainly still feels anxious, especially at the most inconvenient of times, but he doesn't have to deal with it alone now. Puck isn't a  _perfect solution,_ but Puck  _is_ a great resource when he does start to panic, even if it's only a little. He hates to think that he needs a crutch, but sometimes he does...and he's decided it's okay to seek that from a dog who really won't ever judge him for anything at all. It's a relieving realization. 

* * *

Jack wakes up knowing that it’s a bad day. Bitty’s working his way through finals week, so he’s staying at the Haus until he’s finished. Jack can manage on his own on a normal day, but there’s a clenching, twisting feeling in his gut that’s making him just a little bit scared of himself on this particular day.

He sits in bed until Puck paws, and paws, and paws at his legs until he stands up and shuffles to the kitchen for his medication. He lets her outside and pours her breakfast when she comes back inside, and then he slumps down at the kitchen table without making anything for himself. He doesn’t have enough energy right now.

At some point in the day, probably close to noon, he finds himself laying on his back on the kitchen floor, staring up at the textured ceiling. Puck’s head is on his stomach, applying pressure, and her tongue is licking at his chin. Jack’s not entirely sure just how _long_ he’s been dissociating on his floor, but the realization shocks him for a few seconds.

“Phone,” he says, and rubs his hands over his eyes while Puck fetches it from the bedside table where he keeps it. When she returns, he rubs her ears with one hand while his other hand types out a text to Bitty.

**_Today’s been bad. Can we call later?_ **

He feels a little bit guilty, because Bitty has tests to study for and is probably busy, but they’ve been over this more times than Jack can remember--he can call Bitty when he needs to, and it’s not going to be an inconvenience.

Bitty replies quickly that yes, of course they can call just as soon as he gets back from his classes, and Jack doesn’t have the energy to move to the couch to wait; he just stays where he is on the floor.

When he drags himself up, probably an hour later, he’s only mustered up the willpower to prop himself up against the kitchen cabinets. He tells Puck to fetch water, because his therapist always talks about how _important_ water is, and as an NHL player Jack knows she’s not wrong.

Puck’s tail thumps on the ground until he’s ready to stand up, and he braces against her for a few moments until he’s gained his balance back. He sends Bitty a quick text, **_going to sleep, ill text you later_ ** , and manages to go all the way to the couch this time.

He promptly falls asleep.

* * *

There’s a lot of independence that comes with the service dog. Jack would always prefer Bittle or Shitty’s presence during an attack, but he’s not so stressed all the time anymore, and he knows that he can go outside while he’s nervous and home alone without having to be worried about flipping his shit somewhere and panicking--or, at least, he doesn’t have to worry about managing it on his own when it happens. And Puck is always helpful even when he’s got someone else there to help him.

It’s a good feeling, and Jack doesn’t think he’s _recovering_ much quite yet, but he does know that he’s functioning a lot better.

The next time that his mom calls, he’s not lying when he tells her that he’s doing a lot better than he was the last time that they talked.

* * *

 

 

 

> [send requests, questions, and headcanons for this au here](http://aobajosighs.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> [follow my #wayfaring-with-puck au tag to see more](http://aobajosighs.tumblr.com/tagged/wayfaring-with-puck)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment telling me what you thought of this, I'd love to hear if you're interested in a longer series of these pieces. 
> 
> My tumblr is @aobajosighs if you'd like to request writing, art, or headcanons, or feel free to message me @12am if you'd just like to talk! Thank you again for reading, and be sure to let me know what you thought <3


End file.
